


Grassy Hills and Secure Homes

by NavyGreen



Series: Dwarven-Kings and Green Valleys [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, M/M, Post-Hobbit, The Shire, Thorin Lives in the Shire, Thorin Oakenshield Lives, Thorin is a Softie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23259829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NavyGreen/pseuds/NavyGreen
Summary: Thorin remains in the Shire after the Quest for Erebor, and among taking back auctioned possessions and snapping carrots, the Dwarf ponders about his Hobbit.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Dwarven-Kings and Green Valleys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675180
Comments: 11
Kudos: 257





	Grassy Hills and Secure Homes

When Thorin had first visited the Shire, at the start of the Quest, he had thought it trivial.

Who were these stout, plump creatures who rolled in their comforts and knew nothing of the world? Knew nothing of the suffering Thorin and his people had gone through.

No! These shoeless beings had hidden away among their green hills and their full stomachs! They knew nothing of a Dragon, would never understand the pain of losing one’s home. They would never need to traverse long stretches of dangerous land without knowing when they’d next find shelter, never need to beg in Manish towns where they were looked down upon, or feel the weight of ridicule and shame and broken hope.

And Bilbo Baggins – Bilbo Baggins had been the worst of all. He had stumbled and bemoaned over his lack of handkerchiefs. He had grown teary-eyed once the Company had left the cursed realm of Elrond. He had scrunched his nose at a cold, river bath, and gone pale at the sight of blood.

He was Elf-loving and soft and small and _weak_.

Thorin had wanted nothing more than for the Hobbit to turn on his heel like the fleet-footed rabbit he’d believed him to be and run on back to his comfortable green hills.

But now, the Bilbo Baggins Thorin looked upon had shed that softened shell.

This Bilbo had left his home for the sake of another. He had battled Orcs and stabbed wargs. He had faced down the doom of Thorin’s home with nothing but a little, glowing knife, and had jumped before the Dwarf when Thorin had failed against his grandfather’s killer.

Bilbo had not fallen into the golden depths that had so easily stolen Thorin from his company. Instead, he had risen above it, seen what Thorin would not – could not.

And while both Thorin and Bilbo had returned to the Shire to find it much the same, the Shire, in turn, had not found the same Bilbo.

This Hobbit’s curly, honey-coloured hair had grown to his shoulders, though remained braided or tied back more often than not. His steps were steady, and his stance was strong when snapped into action at a foreign bump in the night. His skin was not unmarred but instead carried with it long-healed scars and burns. Bilbo Baggins had returned Bilbo the Dwarf-Friend.

“She still has them – I know it, Thorin. Oh may Yavanna turn her tomatoes yellow,” he said bitterly, pulling Thorin from his musings. Now, the Hobbit rummaged through his cutlery drawer with metallic clinks. Soft curses, too abrasive and more reminiscent of Dwarves than Hobbits, left his lips in a growl.

Thorin glanced up from his current workings – designs for a new chandelier – and said, “I’m not against threatening her, you know.”

Bilbo turned, leaning heavily against the drawer. Once again his search had concluded fruitlessly – forklessly? “And you know that is not the way the Shire does things. I have endured enough gossip already; I won’t add to it with my family – as vile and horrid as they are – being threatened by a sword.”

Thorin raised a brow at that. When the pair had first returned to Bag End, with heavy saddlebags and heavier hearts, they’d found the Hobbits of Hobbiton and beyond crowded around its green door and _auctioning Bilbo’s belongings_. They’d carried out his bed and drawers and even his _books_ in a steady stream while another, older Hobbit had stood by his door and shouted prices.

The Dwarf had barely reached for Orcrist (as a warning, of course. Thorin was done with needless violence) when _Bilbo_ , sweet, soft _Bilbo_ had stormed right up Bagshot Row with Sting in his hand and _roared_ at them.

Thorin did not know many Hobbits or much of their culture, but even he had been able to read the shockwaves pulse through the crowd. Some Hobbits carrying Bilbo’s chests and drawers had dropped them onto their toes just out of astonishment.

 _Good for them_ , Thorin had thought at the time.

Others had fled immediately, while the auctioneer, face as red as his waistcoat, had asked for proof that Bilbo Baggins was indeed _Bilbo Baggins_. It’d made Thorin’s blood boil – the Hobbit had barely been gone a year and a half!

Bilbo, so much smarter and quicker than Thorin, had produced the contract of the Company and shoved it under the auctioneers rounded nose. The other Hobbit, albeit very reluctantly, had ordered the auction to a close. However, he had _not_ ordered for the return of the _already auctioned_ belongings.

And so, Thorin and Bilbo had spent the next month visiting each home (“I trust none of them,” Bilbo had told him. “Even the Tooks?” “Especially the Tooks, Thorin”) collecting his scattered possessions. While Bilbo’s crude threats and callous swipes of his blade (which, Thorin had noticed, had been always pointed down so no secretive, snobbish Hobbits were in any real danger) had quickened the returning of most of Bilbo’s property, a few had remained stolen from the home.

One of these had been a very particular set of fine silverware.

Bilbo, of course, suspected Lobelia. And after accidentally walking into her eyesight on the way to the markets a few days ago – and having received quite the mouthful – Thorin had to agree.

Now, Bilbo waved a fork at him and squinted. “I know what you’re thinking, Thorin. That was a one-time exception.”

Thorin let a low chuckle escape from his throat. “For now. Next time you see Lobelia-”

“Curse her,” Bilbo muttered.

“-eating with your special dining set I doubt Sting will remain in its sheath.”

The Hobbit could only roll his eyes at that and he leaned down to pull open the oven. “She deserves a right poking.”

A waft of apples took the kitchen. That, with the strange, permanent smell of pine in Bag End, settled Thorin’s bones. It was no forge’s smoke, by any means. But it reminded him of _home_.

“We could write to Nori,” the Dwarf began. “He’d steal them for you.”

Bilbo gasped. “Are you questioning my abilities as a burglar?” he asked in a slightly affronted tone as he placed his apple pie on the counter; perfectly golden brown on top, just as always. “I would assume you thought more highly of me, after all-” he waved his hand at the window facing east, “-that.”

“Of course, my dear. Perhaps instead Nori will write for _you_ ,” Thorin replied softly, and a smile pulled at his lips.

The Hobbit smiled, triumphant, and left the pie to cool. He approached the table Thorin now worked at with steady steps and pressed a kiss into the Dwarf’s dark hair. Glancing down at Thorin’s chandelier design, he said;

“Looks mighty Dwarven.”

And it did. The design consisted of sharp, geometric angles, guided up to keep it away from the heads of taller visitors. From some perspectives, he hoped the piece would appear as a Dragon taking flight. Detailed on a few other sheets of paper careful hidden away in the study from Hobbitish eyes – for now – were various etching designs of Thorin’s own making; these would hopefully detail Bilbo’s great deeds on the Quest. But he couldn’t decide whether Bilbo’s flight from the Dragon or his fight against the Pale Orc should take the centre support.

Thorin could only hope Bilbo would like it – etchings and all. Yes, the other Hobbits would turn up their nose at it, but Thorin could not ignore all that the Hobbit had done for him.

It was nothing like the rounded and simplistic designs of the Shire. But then again, neither were they.

“Do you not like it?” Thorin asked, tilting his head up.

Bilbo leaned against the Dwarf’s back and smiled. “No, I do. It’ll be easy to tell who’s stolen it when I see it in their hallway.”

The Dwarf chuckled and placed his large hand over Bilbo’s. The Hobbit, in turn, rested his cheek upon the other’s head.

Outside, birds chirped to their feathery neighbours. The sun shined, bright and blissful. Children – _so many children_ , Thorin had first thought – played along Bagshot Row, and their high giggles and squeals came through the open windows.

Inside Thorin, despite the comforts and securities of the Shire, something ached for carven stone and silver fountains. He wished to stare from its high balconies, and walk deep within its depths. He wished to sleep to the music of the mountain, and wake to the song of the forges.

He could imagine his sister and her sons within the Mountain, and the rest of his company. His family.

Kili, Thorin thought, would be practising his silverwork in the fuming royal forges. Fili would be doing the same for goldwork (and, the Dwarf remembered with a sharp pang of guilt, be training for the heavy crown of Kingship). Dori would be weaving to his heart’s content and beyond – many tapestries had been burnt or lost, and on top of replacing those, there were more about the Quest that needed to be designed and woven. Ori, too, would have a similar pressure placed on him. If anything burnt easier than tapestries, it was books. Nori – well, Thorin wasn’t quite sure what he would be up to, and neither would Dwalin, not with his duty of training the royal guard.

Bofur and Bifur would have set up their toyshop by the time Bilbo and Thorin had returned to the Shire. For Bombur, only the Royal Kitchens awaited him and could sate his skill. Oin would be treating wounds or creating salves – Thorin had never understood the delicate art of healing, as much as he appreciated it in times of need, or not. Gloin, Thorin hoped, would have reunited with his wife and little boy, and now enjoyed the sanctuary of Erebor.

Balin - now bouncing between training Fili the delicate steps of diplomacy and assisting Ori with the libraries – had confided in Thorin before he’d left with Bilbo west; that the Dwarf wished to retake Moria.

Thorin had told Balin that he wished him all the luck on the good, green earth.

Now, so far from Erebor, Thorin yearned for their companionship. He dreamt of their campfire talks and frantic flees. He wished for his ancestral home – what he had lost and regained at such a high cost.

But, even here in the Shire, with its silverware and copper pots, something _gold_ still called to him. Its voice echoed from the depths of Erebor’s treasury, across the canopies of Mirkwood and high over the Misty mountains. It found him, in the peaceful valleys of the Shire.

It found him and it _burned_.

Moving to the other side of the Misty Mountains had dulled it – as if a sieve had been placed in its path and the goldsickness only struggled through in a golden, glimmering dust.

And as it ached Thorin to be from his family and their home, the thought of entering its cavernous halls, to be surrounded by all its wealth, planted his thick, Dwarven feet firmly in the grassy passes of the Shire.

Let dust be _dust_ – and pray Aule prevented a repetition of goldsickness from crafting in the forges his mind to snare him once more.

The Shire, after all, was a place of comforts and security. And its people (excluding one particular branch of the Baggins’ line), were a kind yet resilient people.

While Elves and Dwarves fought against Orcs and worse, Hobbits battled against nature itself. They transformed the trees and guided the plants to their will. They looked upon the sun with delight and scorn, and glanced upon rain in much the same way. Bilbo had more than once destroyed a lineage of ants for daring to enter his fenced realm.

Thorin, it seemed, was not crafted by Aule for gardening, despite Bilbo’s guidance and teachings. He had snapped carrots in half, lost his trowel in the dirt, and stepped on a line of seeds more times than he would admit.

But despite the struggle, and the curses, and the sometimes-worthless efforts, the victories and boons of Hobbit battles weren’t bathed in blood and tears.

Instead, they were bathed in boiling water and set upon plates for dinner.

And that, even after the struggles and trials of the Quest, Thorin could appreciate more than anything.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true.

The Hobbit who had changed his mind at the last second, who had toughened and grown under the sleet and the snow, who had saved Thorin’s life Aule knows how many times…

He was what Thorin appreciated most, above anything. Above the bloodied battles, above his oaken shield and glowing, Elvish weaponry. He appreciated Bilbo Baggins more than the halls of his once-home. And his company, Thorin suspected, did too.

And so, even when each yellowed sunrise sent the Dwarf new challenges, Thorin remained in the valleys and hills of the Shire.

Thorin stayed with Bilbo Baggins, Lucky Number and Barrel-Rider.

And if he grew grey and wrinkled among its green, he could not complain as long as his Hobbit did so too beside him.


End file.
